Joan Smith (17 page)

He and Robinson exchanged a grim look. When Sir Giles turned to her again, the wariness had changed to knowledge. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Nothing. I’m—nothing.”

“You’re meeting
him,”
Sir Giles said, leaping on the dangerous truth. She looked at the pistol on the table. “As you met him last night. I saw him leaving Chêne Bay. He’s had his way with you, hasn’t he?”

“No! I promise you he has not!”

“Killing’s too good for the likes of him,” Robinson declared.

“No! You mustn’t!” Arabella exclaimed.

From beyond the door, the rumble of an approaching carriage was heard on the road beyond. “She’s meeting him, by gad. That’s Raventhorpe, I wager,” Robinson said, fingering his pistol.

There was murder in Sir Giles’s eyes. “I thought you gave in to that morning wedding a bit too easily,” he said. He stood up then and extinguished the rushlight, plunging them into darkness. Arabella could no longer see their faces, to help discern their intentions, but the very air was heavy with menace. She turned to flee, and felt Sir Giles’s fingers clamp about her wrist like a manacle. The rumble of the carriage drew nearer. It was at the gateway. She could hear the jingle of the harnesses now as the groom drew to a stop.

“Don’t! You mustn’t shoot him!” she cried.

Sir Giles had no intention of shooting Raventhorpe in front of Arabella. He quickly scanned his options and said, “If you want your lover to live, tell him you’re through with hint Tell him he’s not to come back. And you’d best make him believe it, missy. Bert’s hard to control when he has a pistol in his hand. There, he’s coming in at the front door!” he said, as the sound of footsteps on the veranda echoed within.

“He’d not have seen our light through the hedge,” Bert said.

Sir Giles said, “We’ll go into the front parlor. Let her have her word with him at the door. And if he doesn’t leave like a gentleman when she turns him off, then you know what you must do, Bert. Arabella?” His fingers tightened on her wrist. Even the bone beneath the flesh hurt.

“Yes, I’ll turn him off,” she said, weak with fear. At that moment she would have agreed to marry Robinson or Sir Giles himself to save bloodshed.

She was led through the dark house, trembling with fear, feeling in her bones that neither she nor Raventhorpe would come out of this alive. Sir Giles never slackened his tight grip on her. If she could only get rid of Alexander temporarily, she would find some way to notify him of the dangerous duel facing him. The important thing now was to convince him she was through with him, because if he once set foot inside the doorway, he would be shot dead. She must act as she had never acted before in her life.

She opened the door a crack and saw him, waiting in the moonlight. Her heart was wrenched to have to let him think for a single moment that she didn’t love him to the edge of distraction. “Alexander,” she said in a voice as dead as a corpse. He turned and hurried toward her, wearing a smile. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m sorry, but I’m not going to marry you after all.”

“Now, what game is this, my pet?” he laughed easily. “If it’s the duel—”

“It’s no game!” she said, her voice rising in fear. Having no reason to suspect she was frightened, Raventhorpe mistook her emotion for anger. ‘You’re too hotheaded. I could never marry anyone like you. It was all a game to pay you back for leaving me alone all winter. I’m not marrying you. Just go away and leave me alone.”

He stared at her with an expression of disbelief. “Belle, don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“I do mean it. Go! Go away and never come back. I don’t love you. I never did. Just go.” Tears streamed down her face, and her voice rose hysterically. It occurred to her that her uncle still planned to murder Raventhorpe. He might lock her up, to prevent her from getting word to him about Robinson. The duel would go forward tomorrow as planned, unless she could stop it. “Go tonight, this very minute,” she said. “Go back to London.”

Raventhorpe just looked, unable to credit this was the same woman who had loved him last night, who had written to him that very morning asking his help. When he spoke, his tone was high with disbelief. “What have they done to you?”

“I told you not to fight that duel,” she said. “If you fight a duel with my uncle—”

“I apologized. It’s your uncle you should be reading this lecture. He wouldn’t accept my apology.”

"You’d better—” She felt the nose of the pistol nudge against her spine. She couldn’t warn him about the duel, but perhaps she could convince him to leave. “The duel’s
off,”
she said. “My uncle’s changed his mind, so you can go back to London without worrying about your precious pride.”

“I haven’t heard from Almquist of this change of mind.”

Again the pistol was pressed firmly against her. “If you fight that duel, I’ll never speak to you again. Just go away. Go now, and I’ll try not to think so badly of you.”

Raventhorpe continued staring in disbelief, there in the moonlight. She was half-hidden by the door. The part of her he could see looked like a demented woman, with wildly staring eyes. He had always known she would dislike the idea of a duel. It had gone against the pluck to agree to meet Sir Giles, but he had no alternative. Demme, he was doing it for her. And this was his thanks. She had made a game of him, to ease her wounded pride over his sojourn in London.

“So Sir Giles has won after all,” he said.

“Yes.”

Still he stood, thinking, wondering if her uncle was putting some pressure on her, perhaps threatening her with social expulsion or some such foolish thing. “There’s a ship leaving Bournemouth tomorrow for Greece. We could make it, Belle. Come with me. Come away with me tonight. You won’t have to face your uncle and the neighbors, if that’s what bothers you.”

“It’s you who’s bothering me. I was happy until I met you. Go away. Just go away.” She slammed the door and fell against it, sobbing.

In the shadows, three pairs of ears waited for the sound of movement beyond the door. There was one rattling bang as Raventhorpe kicked the door, or slammed it with his fist. An echo of some profanity followed the bang, then he strode angrily away. There was the crack of a whip, and the carriage rumbled down the road.

Once Raventhorpe was beyond danger, Arabella’s fear congealed to a cold fury. She turned on her uncle. “How dare you make me do this! I’ll never marry your precious William, and that I promise you. I know what you’re after. My money! I’ve got your measure now, sir.”

“My dear,” he said in the same syrupy tone she had been hearing forever, and never before realized it was the voice of hypocrisy. “It was for your own good.”

“No, Uncle. It was for your good. I want you out of Chêne Bay by eventide tomorrow, and you may take your son with you. I’ll not have you under my roof.”

“You forget I am your guardian, Arabella. You are still a minor.”

“You forget there are such things as laws in this country,” she flashed back, and wrenched the door open. “I don’t care if you do manage to steal my fortune. I’d rather live on a bone with Alexander than marry William. I shan’t marry him, so don’t think it.”

A ray of wan moonlight formed a fan in the hallway. It was bright enough to see her uncle nod in Robinson’s direction, to see the black muzzle of the gun rise, and point at her. She stared at it a moment, shocked into immobility. He wouldn’t dare! But the cold glitter in Sir Giles’s eyes told her he would. She made a motion to escape through the open door and Sir Giles’s strong arms seized her.

“Best wait until he’s gone beyond hearing,” he said to Robinson. “‘Twould be awkward if he came back.”

“It might be for the best,” Robinson said. “A lovers’ quarrel
.. .
He’s a hotheaded rascal, is young Raventhorpe. We chance along and catch him standing over the corpse, we have to shoot him.”

“As you wish.” Sir Giles nodded. He stepped aside and let Robinson pinion her against the wall.

The clatter of the horses and carriage prevented Raventhorpe from hearing the pistol being fired. Robinson was taking no chance of missing his target in the semidarkness, and held the gun tightly against Arabella’s breast, which muffled the sound.

When she lay on the floor, with her lifeblood soaking into her gown, she heard Robinson say, as if from a great distance, “It seems he’s not coming back. Best to leave her here and find her in the morning. With luck, someone may have seen Raventhorpe stopping.”

“Put her in the blue room,” Sir Giles said. “It will look more like a lovers’ quarrel if they’re in a bedroom.”

Arabella felt a heaviness in her chest as they carried her upstairs. Not a pain, exactly Her senses were too weak to feel a physical pain. They laid her on the bed, and stood a moment talking, but she did not listen. In the darkness, the voice she heard was Alexander’s.
So Sir Giles has won after all.
It couldn’t be! She could not be dying without telling Alexander she loved him! She could never rest in peace until he knew, and until the world knew of her uncle’s treachery.

But she was dying. This great shining light that came to meet her was death. It was not so frightening as she had thought it would be. It was almost peaceful, welcoming....

In the morning it was Mrs. Meyers who discovered that Arabella was missing and raised the alarm. Before noon, it was learned that Raventhorpe was also gone from his home. There was conjecture that they had run away together. This pleased Sir Giles, and in the dead of night, he and Robinson removed Arabella’s body from the blue room at Chêne Mow and buried it in the spinney. If questions were asked later, even if the body was found, who would ever believe it was her loving uncle, who had been willing to risk his life for her, who had killed her? Especially when a more likely suspect was so close at hand.

It was a few days before they heard Raventhorpe had boarded a ship for Greece at Bournemouth, alone. He had returned first to Oldstead Abbey to take his leave of his mother. He gave no real reason for the journey. He just wanted to get away, she said.

At that time, Bert Robinson remembered having seen a tall man with a lady at the weir the night Arabella disappeared. They seemed to be struggling. He thought it a lovers’ spat. He had heard a splash, and even heard the lady call for help, but thought the man would rescue her. Sir Giles had the weir dragged, but no trace of the body was found. Arabella’s packed parcel of gowns was discovered at Chêne Mow, and returned in secret to Chêne Bay, where Mrs. Meyers laid them away in trunks in the attic. Sir Giles gave her to understand she had been seriously derelict in her chaperoning of Arabella, and the less said of it, the better. He kindly arranged to find her a position in Scotland, where her lapses were not known.

With no body, and with the influence of Lady Raventhorpe’s to impede legal matters, no warrant for Lord Raventhorpe’s arrest was ever issued, but the legend grew up in the neighborhood that Arabella had spurned Raventhorpe’s advances, and in a fit of passion, he had drowned her in the weir to prevent her from marrying Throckley. A distraught serving girl, sneaking home through the meadow from a meeting with her lover, was frightened by a rabbit in the meadow, and reported seeing Arabella’s ghost. Ere long, other people sighted her ghost as well, and even heard it wailing.

Sir Giles and William Throckley draped their hats and sleeves with crape, and went into deep mourning. The door of Chêne Bay bore its funereal hatchment, and a mourning service was held at the church, none of which hastened the transfer of Arabella’s fortune into their eager hands. That did not happen until the requisite seven years were up, at which time Arabella was proclaimed legally dead, and Sir Giles became the owner of the estate he had so long coveted.

Chapter Eighteen

When I looked up from the litter of hastily scribbled sheets on the table, I could scarcely believe it was midnight. My shoulders and neck ached, and my vision was blurred from fatigue. How many days had I spent in this little cottage, transcribing the story that seemed to come to me from nowhere—from the air, or Arabella’s spirit, or from the cottage itself?

This table I sat at was the same table at which Sir Giles and Bert Robinson had planned Raventhorpe’s murder. It was through that kitchen window that Arabella had peered, and seen them plotting the evil deed. That dark smudge by the edge of the cupboard was where the rushlight had hung, casting its shadows on the conspirators. And the blue bedroom where I slept was the room where Arabella had been taken to die. No wonder it had felt unwelcoming!

My thoughts were sad, but the story was coming along splendidly I could hardly wait for morning to discover what came next. Arabella’s tale was finished, and if the novel was to continue, the plot must follow Raventhorpe to Greece and Italy, and delve

164into his amorous career there. I felt an angry sting to even contemplate him with other women, his lips burning theirs, his tongue whispering silken lies.

I climbed the stairs and fell wearily into bed. My sleep that night was dreamless. Usually the general idea for the next day’s writing came to me while I slept. At least I did not dream of the dark maze. When I sat down to work the next morning, I found myself staring at the blank page, not knowing what to write. I had no mental image of Raventhorpe dashing off to Bournemouth. Was he angry, sad? What did the ship look like? Did he take his carriage and groom on board with him? If not, what did he do with them? I riffled my hands through my hair, and at last decided I needed a break from writing. The sun was shining. I’d drive to Lyndhurst and buy my groceries.

When I passed Mollie’s office, I dropped in to say hello. She was bent over her desk, working. “Belle!” she exclaimed. “Long time no see. What have you been doing with yourself?”

“I’ve been busy writing.”

Her green eyes examined me closely. “You look tuckered out, my girl. You’ve been working too hard. You should get about and see the countryside while you’re here. I’ll tell you what, why don’t you visit Chêne Bay this afternoon? You can check and see you’ve got the details of the house right. It’s the day for tours. I’d go with you, but I’m snowed under in paperwork.”